Heart of Stone
by KrossWinter
Summary: Harry Potter died getting the Philosopher's Stone. Of course, only he and Death know that. Deals are struck, bargains made, and now the elixir of life running through his veins is all that keeps Harry in Death's good graces.
1. The Stone

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

**Chapter edited: July 25, 2013**

* * *

><p><em>Harry James Potter<em>

Harry didn't know what the hell was going on. One second he was standing in front of the pile of dust that was Quirrell when some cloud had formed, screamed, and rushed through him. Next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground with this man in a business suit from 19th century was standing above him smoking a cigar.

"Harry Potter," The man said, pulling out a pocket watch. "I honestly wasn't expecting you for another several decades. You were supposed to die in your 80s from a heart attack. But it seems to have come seven decades early." He snapped the pocket watch shut and put it away in his pocket. "You Potters, always throwing wrenches in my plans. Just like all your ancestors."

Harry could only blink owlishly at the man. "What?" he said eloquently.

He took another puff of his cigar, blowing the smoke out on Harry's face. "Mr. Potter, you were not supposed to die quite yet." He tapped the cigar, ashes falling off onto Harry's chest.

"I'm dead?" Harry blinked owlishly at the thought, the words seeming to defy the reality that other man was insisting upon him.

"Absolutely, Mr. Potter. Voldemort plowed straight through your heart. Burst it right open."

Harry only stared in shock. He was dead…from a dust cloud blowing up his heart. "But…how – I mean, how can a dust cloud burst my heart?"

The man puffed a ring of smoke in Harry's face. "That is not important. You are young, so I don't expect you to understand, but death is a business. As a business, I must do what it takes to keep it running. Collecting the souls of the dead, believe it or not, is actually very difficult yet profitable. And the more time I waste here talking to you, Mr. Potter, is costing me valuable souls that are being swooped up by my nefarious rival Deaths." The man, who Harry now assumed was Death (_a _Death, apparently) pulled out is watch and grimaced.

"Why are you still here talking to me then?" Harry asked, wondering why he was spending so much time talking to him when he could be going about his business and leaving him to die. That thought made Harry pause in its oddness; he did not want to die by any means, and Death was keeping him alive so long as they were talking, so perhaps he shouldn't have said that.

"Mr. Potter, there are several outstanding…debts, that many people in the living world owe me and are reneging on giving me my due. As I can't afford to be here much longer, I will strike you a deal, Mr. Potter…a second chance at life." His eyes met Harry's in an attempt to impress upon him how monumental an offer this was.

This time, Harry found it difficult to not gawk. While he still didn't fully comprehend that he was dead, he knew that he was, if that made any sense at all. But Harry wasn't stupid; he knew there had to be a catch. There were always catches to stuff like this. "What's the-" he started before being cut off.

"Catch? Oh nothing really, Mr. Potter. I give you a chance at life again, and you go collect my debts." Death said conversationally, taking another drag of his cigar.

That did not sound particularly good at all, to Harry's ears. "You mean…you want me to kill people?" he asked, swallowing thickly.

Death sighed deeply, not enjoying being misunderstood by the young boy, "Mr. Potter," he began, "It is quite simple really. I'm not asking you to go on a rampage, demanding virgins and killing men. I will give you the capability to live again, and continue to do so, until you complete the tasks I have given you. At which point, I will let you live till the end of your natural days."

The man's black eyes burrowed deeper into Harry's, and he could feel his soul being dissected and examined. The man knew that he desperately wanted to live again, to see Ron and Hermione and all of the other friends he had made at Hogwarts. To see Hagrid and Dumbledore and his professors…everyone. Harry had not lived an easy life, and the experiences he had at Hogwarts this past year had made him the happiest he had ever been. He didn't want to leave that behind.

The man smirked and offered Harry his hand. "Do we have an accord, Mr. Potter?"

Harry gulped and grabbed the hand.

His world exploded, and Harry would reflect later in his life that it was the most euphoric thing he had ever experienced. He would liken it to being filled with all the knowledge in the world and understanding all of it simultaneously, overwhelming him in its magnitude and the magnificence of it all. It was an eternity of peace packed into a moment and Harry wondered briefly if that was what it was to die – to know everything and to know peace so intimately.

* * *

><p><em>Death<em>

Death only smiled as Harry collapsed unconscious. The boy had essentially made a deal with the devil now. He could come and claim him anytime he wanted. But that was for him to know and the boy to never find out.

However, that was not the point; deals with himself he took seriously. Death said he would give the boy back his life, and so he would. But as Death stared at the boy's body, even he knew he could not reverse time and repair his heart. He could only halt time for a small moment, not reverse it. He held no dominion over it, and such damage the boy had already suffered was beyond his capabilities for healing.

"That leaves only one option then…" Death said, grimacing slightly.

And so Death reached for the stone that was clutched in the boy's hand. Death found it ironic, what had caused him so much trouble in acquiring a certain soul over the centuries would now be a tool that he would be using to keep another soul away from him. He could not claim that which was perfectly alive, if there was no opening for him to claim. The stone would keep Harry perfectly alive in all senses of the word, but Death would have the boy's soul on a chain.

Carefully, Death pushed his hand, the stone clutched firmly, into the boy's chest. Death knew it would be a fight later on though, to claim the boy's life. He could already see the blood being mixed with the elixir that the stone oozed. The elixir would anchor him to this plane while Death tried to pull him from another. The only thing he could hope for is that things will not go as they have for Flamel, the damnable Frenchman who had eluded him for centuries.

Flamel was a man that frustrated Death to no end. When the man was young, they had met under grim, strange circumstances that Flamel himself had brought about, but it was not Flamel who Death had come to take during that meeting. This was in the younger centuries of his existence, Death, and he had made himself seem threatening and imposing instead of his current visage. It was an impression that affirmed Flamel's path and actions and resulted in the Philosopher's Stone being made.

Careful to weave a thick enchantment over the stone, Death made sure that no one, aside from himself and the boy, would know that the stone resided in his chest. For all other people, there would a steady thumping and they would perceive a heart made not of stone, but flesh. It would take a truly powerful force to pierce the veil over it.

Pulling out his pocket watch, Death opened it. A small, ornate golden thing, its hands ticked normally until he spoke, "Harry James Potter."

The inside of the metal clasp morphed to show a name that previously had a zero beneath it. Now though, there was simply nothing. The seconds hand began to move in reverse and after a full minute, there was still no number.

"So I have succeeded…I have never been less enthusiastic," Death said, noting that color was returning to the Potter boy's complexion as air suddenly rushed back into his lungs and is blood pumped through his veins.

His head snapped up when he heard footsteps enter the chamber, and he hastily made himself invisible again. Severus Snape, a man who had frequently _almost_ met him, entered the chamber but stopped dead once he saw Potter on the floor.

Death couldn't help but chuckle at his own pun.

Severus Snape had many close calls with Death during the war a little more than a decade ago. Wounds that would kill a normal man, crudely sewn back together with battlefield medical magic, and a sheer determination to survive, had kept the professor from stepping over the threshold into his domain many a time.

There was a particular time that came to mind, the night he had come to claim the McKinnons when they were murdered. While Dominic Travers, who he was waiting to claim as he wasted away in Azkaban, was dealing with Marlene McKinnon and her children, Kevin McKinnon had gotten a particularly nasty cutting curse on Severus, slicing him from his right thigh to the man's left ribs. Bleeding profusely, he had given Severus up for dead and turned away only to be hit by a killing curse from another Death Eater. Severus sealed his skin back up, downed a few replenishing potions, and then portkeyed out of there.

There was also the event where the man's father had cracked him over the skull, and he had only survived thanks to a fit of accidental boyhood magic.

_Ah, such a lucky man…or is he unlucky, to have come so close to me so many times?_ Death thought, watching him. Severus performed a detection spell, which wouldn't turn up his location, and then Death left the chamber as the professor ran over to the student.

* * *

><p><em>Severus Snape<em>

He had told the Headmaster that it had been a bad idea to put one of the world's greatest magical artifacts in a school full of innately curious school children.

Severus seemingly flew down the many corridors and down staircases as he made his way to the third floor. His potion challenge, which Albus insisted on having an answer so as to lure Voldemort or whoever was acting on his behalf deeper into the trap, had a ward about it to alert him when it had been breached, which it had been. He had been in a meeting with Minerva when it had gone off, to which he alerted her and they both grew wide eyed with panic. She mentioned that Potter had come to her saying that he was going to try to steal the stone tonight. Severus told her to contact the Headmaster as he started off towards the chamber.

Could it be that the Potter boy, in his ignorant suspicions, had breached that deep into the protections that the professors had set around the stone? Albus's idea behind the protections is that they would be varied enough to keep any perpetrator off their game and be unable to predict the next protection, but with each protection they got past they would be lured deeper in and deeper into their trap.

Of course, only Severus and the Headmaster, as well as member of the Order on staff, knew about the secondary goal of the protections around the stone.

_Of course, none of that matters now since all the protections and traps were rendered moot by a first year's blatant hero complex, _he thought.

It would be just like Potter to take after his father like this, to disregard the rules so blatantly and without fear or respect for consequence. He should've gone straight McGonagall and insisted and lay out his evidence for his thinking. At the least that's what the Granger girl should have done! She was obviously the brains of the supposed 'Golden Trio'. And now he had to go save them from their stupidity – it was likely that they had gotten injured along the way to his trial.

The ward triggered again as he was on the flight of stairs between the fourth and fifth floor, and Severus knew then, though, that Potter was not wrong in his suspicions. Quirrell must have made his move tonight.

Haste found the potion master's heels as he turned down the third floor corridor, into the irate cerberus' chambers. Conjuring a self-playing flute that quickly lulled the guardian beast to sleep; he opened the trap door and shot off a jet of flame to burn away the Devil's Snare that Sprout had left behind. The other challenges were easy enough to get past; in part because the Headmaster had shared with him the safety spells that deactivated Filius's and Minerva's challenges.

Severus had come across the Granger girl and the youngest Weasley son, the former of which was startled by his appearance. Checking them over and shooting a stasis charm on the red head, snapping an assurance that no, the boy was not dead, the potions master continued on to his trial and deactivated the flame ward.

Entering the chamber, Severus's blood ran cold. Lying there on the stairs, before the cracked Mirror of Erised, was Harry Potter looking as pale as death with a pile of purple robes and ashes in front of him.

A chuckle rang softly through the room, light enough that it could've been his imagination, but years of fighting during the war on the side of the Death Eaters made him familiar with their tactics. He didn't know all of the agents, Quirrell may have been one, and that lack of knowledge was enough to startle Severus into drawing his want and going on alert.

A detection spell later and with no results, Severus wasted no time in rushing to Potter's side and checking him over. He was pale, but not dead, and he was scratched all over. The scratches likely came from Filius's keys chasing the boy. Granger must have gone back to Weasley after helping him with the riddle; that would explain why Potter wasn't poisoned as well.

Severus looked anxiously around the chamber, noting that the robes belonged to Quirrell, as likely were the ashes what remained of the man's body. Magical backlash, or had Potter done it? It would warrant investigation later. The Mirror of Erised still stood in the center of the chamber, a silent witness to all that had transpired there. He made great effort not to look into its cursed glass.

The amount of death magic in the air bothered Severus slightly though. The air could only have been saturated with this much of it if the killing curse had been used frequently in a short amount of time or if a great magic had occurred and resulted in death. Severus stilled at that thought and regarded Quirrell's ashes for a moment. The chuckle…

Snapping himself out of his musings, he turned back to Potter and began to float him. He had to get him to Poppy; he would never forgive himself if something happened to Lily's son, no matter the father.

* * *

><p><em>Harry James Potter<em>

Harry woke up with a start. His vision swam, his body ached, and he could hear his blood pumping into every orifice of his person. Clutching his head, he knew that what had happened had surely been a dream. There was no way he had talked to Death, it was preposterous.

"Are you alright, Harry?" said a voice next to him. "I remember reading somewhere once in this delightful muggle magazine that too much air at one time came be damaging to the body."

Harry could only blink as his surroundings came into a blurry focus for him. _The Hogwarts Hospital Wing_, he realized. That means that they must have found him. He reached for his glasses on the nightstand, and turned to look at Dumbledore, who had been waiting for Harry to gather his senses. "Professor? What are you doing here? What about Quirrell, the stone?"

He would have kept going, but the old wizard held up his hand to motion for him to stop. "Gone, Harry. Quirrell died down in that chamber when he tried to touch you. As for the stone, it has disappeared, though to where I do not know."

Harry looked back down at his sheets; Ron, Hermione, and he nearly lost their lives trying to protect that stone. And now it had somehow mysteriously disappeared? That was just a bit too suspicious

"Though you can rest assured, Harry, it would have been impossible for the stone to have fallen into the wrong hands. The only people who were down in that chamber were you, Professor Quirrell, and Professor Snape."

Harry turned to him alarmed; about to speak his suspicions about his potions professor, but then held his tongue. Quirrell's words, that Snape had been trying to protect the stone, rang in his head. "What about Ron and Hermione? Are they okay?"

The old wizard reached up with a halting gesture. "Fine, Harry. They are fine. As a matter of fact," Dumbledore reached towards the mountain of sweets at the foot of Harry's bed, "I believe he has already saved you the trouble of opening your chocolate frogs."

Harry could only smile, "Of course he did."

* * *

><p>The Hogwarts express had pulled away from the station some time ago. Both Ron and Hermione had fallen asleep in their compartment, leaving Harry alone to look out the window.<p>

Had it been a dream, what happened in the mirror chamber? Death had said his heart had exploded, being plowed straight through by Voldemort's spirit. So, that would mean that he no more heart, right?

With a shaking hand, Harry moved to feel where the familiar beating of his heart should've been. Instead, he felt nothing. Nothing at all, not a single thump.

_Breathe, Harry, breathe…_he thought to himself, _Think about this logically and calmly. You're heart isn't beating, if it's even in one whole piece anymore anyways._

Quietly, Harry got up and left the compartment, heading to the bathroom. No better place when you need to think in solitude. And solitude was exactly what he needed right now. By the laws of nature he should be dead, can't exactly live with a broken heart, right? He couldn't be walking around normal like any other person.

Harry pulled his shirt open, and clenched his teeth at what he saw. A dark patch of skin where his heart should have been, the size of a deep red stone.

* * *

><p>AN: A lot more details and the beginnings of some plot points that I may have inadvertently created later in the story out of the blue. Plus, a good thousand words longer.


	2. A Return

**UPDATED: 1/26/14**

* * *

><p><em>Harry James Potter<em>

Harry did his best, he really did, to keep his breathing under control and stop himself from freaking out. With shaking breaths, he placed his hand over his heart, hoping to feel the familiar beat.

There was nothing; no beat or thump or any sign that his heart was there. Harry stumbled backwards, hitting the door to one of the stalls. His brain was working a mile a minute, his lungs doing their best to make sure he had enough air. This wasn't possible. He shouldn't be standing, let alone breathing, thinking even. He may have been denied a normal education for a year, but Harry knew enough about humans to know that you don't survive without a heart. It hadn't been a dream then – Voldemort had destroyed his heart and Death replaced it.

His heart began to beat faster and Harry knew he needed to get his breathing under control. Heavy breaths filled the silence of the bathroom, and Harry began to calm down and his brain thinking rationally. Magic, it was all an act of magic. With magic, anyone could live with an erupted heart. This was the mantra that he repeated inside his head over and over and over again.

It was then Harry felt a weight in his pocket, like a pocket watch, suddenly appear. Pulling it out he realized it was just that; a simple golden pocket watch that he had no recollection of. Opening it, a small piece of paper fell out onto the floor. The inside of the watch contained a strange symbol of a triangle, circle, and a line down the middle of them. Not knowing what the symbol meant, Harry picked up the piece of paper that fell out.

"Say a name." Harry mumbled, reading the fancy scrawl on the paper. Harry look momentarily confused at the piece of paper, and then looked back at the pocket watch. "Say a name? What is that supposed to mean?" Harry asked. _Could it be an enchanted watch?_ Harry wondered.

"Harry James Potter," he said, doing what the paper told him, but nothing happened. The hands continued moving, the numbers remained as they were, and the pocket watch was still a pocket watch. Harry shook it, tapped on the glass, opened and closed it and nothing happened. _What about a different name?_

"Hermione Jean Granger." Harry said, staring at the watch and eyes grew fascinated as the metal shifted beneath him.

Hermione's name appeared on the inside of the metal latch, a large number beneath it. On the watch, the seconds began to tick backwards instead of forwards and after it passed the twelve mark, the number beneath her name fell by one.

"It's a death clock…" Harry whispered, gazing even more curiously at the object after he realized what the number was. Did it do the same for any name that was said?

"Draco Malfoy." The name and number changed. So, it didn't need a middle name in order to work. It just needed him to think of the particular person, perhaps?

"Ronald Bilius Weasley." Again.

"Dudley Morgan Dursley." Harry took a perverse satisfaction the number was much smaller than everybody else's. His cousin had it coming, really.

Harry continued to experiment with the watch for a time, trying to see how it worked, what its limitations were. He already knew that it was a countdown for people, which, when he gave it more thought, mildly disturbed him. Harry could pretty much tell someone when they were going to die. That thought struck him rather powerfully; it was a morbid an terrifying knowledge that had been given to him.

Harry looked back at the watch for a moment, a small flicker of hope appearing, one born out of childlike hope that only orphans and people who had lost someone close could know, and spoke in a whisper, "Lily Maria Potter." Harry had to close his eyes in mild pain when he saw his mother's name appear with a zero beneath it. He had known it was a foolish hope, but the last year had been filled with things he hadn't believed before. Plus, what Voldemort had said down in the chamber had gotten Harry to hope that it was, somehow, possible.

A knock at the door broke Harry from his thoughts, making him quickly shove the watch back in his pocket and wipe his eyes. They had grown moist with thoughts of his mother and any hope of seeing her again. "You alright in there Harry?" asked Ron through the door, banging on it once more.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Harry said, clearing his throat and opening the door. Ron stood there, his hand raised, a worried expression on his face. Harry realized he must have been in the bathroom for a while. He thought back to the initial reason he came into the bathroom though before asking the red head, "Can you do me a favor Ron?"

The Weasley blinked, but nodded. "Sure, what?"

Sometimes Harry was incredibly annoyed with Ron's simple and accepting nature, but now was not one of those times. Lifting up his shirt, Harry asked Ron if he saw a marking near his heart on his chest or back; a marking deep red in color.

"None that I can see. Now can you put your shirt back down? It's weird," Ron said with a look on his face.

Harry complied, a contemplative expression on his face. Ron couldn't see the mark, which made Harry suspect that no one else could either; after all, Madame Pomfrey hadn't made any mention of it, nor had Dumbledore. Thinking back to the events in the chamber, he realized that Death probably had something to do with others not being able to see the mark where the stone was, to protect his 'investment'.

* * *

><p><em>Ronald Bilius Weasley<em>

Summer was in full swing at the Burrow, and that meant that Ron Weasley was playing quidditch with his siblings, dealing with his brother's pranks, and his little sister's Hogwarts preparations. His first year was far more memorable than he had ever thought it would've been, and he made a friend out of the most famous wizard of their generation. Ron wondered how that had worked out; the poor pureblood becoming friends with the humble Boy-Who-Lived.

The Boy-Who Lived who was not answering any of the letters that he sent.

This was concerning in and of itself, and made the sixth Weasley child wonder if he had somehow done something to offend Harry towards the end of the year, or made him angry somehow. Was it because he ate all of Harry's chocolate frogs when he was in the hospital wing? Ron realized it may have been mildly – okay, more than mildly – inconsiderate of him, but that couldn't have been enough reason for Harry to get mad enough not to write, right?

_What am I saying?_ Ron thought, shaking his head. _Harry isn't that kind of guy. Something must have happened to him, something that's keeping him from writing back. Maybe Mione's written him, I wonder if she's gotten anything?_

Ron walked over to the desk, full of clutter and food, and scrounged around for a piece of paper to write a brief note to the other member of their group of friends. If Harry was mad at him, he'd know if Hermione replied saying that she had gotten letters from Harry. If she hadn't either, then something may have been well and truly wrong. Harry had told him a bit about his relatives, and none of it sounded good. It could've been that his relatives weren't letting Harry get his mail, stupid muggles.

"Hey Mum," Ron shouted down the stairs, his voice falling in with the din of his siblings, "Where did Errol get off to!?"

"Percy sent him off, he'll be back!" the Weasley matriarch shouted back up the stairs. "Fred! George! What did I say about gnomes in the house!?"

Ron gave an exasperated sigh and flopped back down onto his bed. Errol wouldn't be back for a significant amount of time then; bloody bird was always getting lost. This set Ron a bit on edge for some reason though; haste was becoming a necessity to finding out the answer to whether or not Harry was just mad at him and ignoring him, or was in trouble with muggle family.

And Ron had a sinking suspicion that trouble with those particular muggles would not bode well for his best friend.

* * *

><p><em>Harry James Potter<em>

For Harry, the summer was seemingly divided into two different halves.

The first half started once he got back to Privet Drive and was put back to work by his Aunt Petunia and Dudley resumed glaring at him all the chances that he could. Uncle Vernon would snap at him to make food or to do menial tasks, and seemed the most annoyed with Harry's presence being back for the summer. Undoubtedly, Harry's uncle had been the happiest when he did not return after being dropped off at King's Cross last fall. That happiness was now gone with Harry's resumed residency.

What marked this first half of the summer though was the aching pace at which it passed. His friends, the first ones he had ever really had, were not sending him any mail at all, and Hedwig was being forced into her cage all summer by his uncle. The loneliness that he felt made him miserable, and he could feel every minute as it passed, anxiously hoping that a letter from either of his friends would arrive at that moment; an owl flying towards his window from the horizon.

The second part of the summer was when Harry finally learned why he wasn't getting any letters from his friends. On the night of a dinner party that his uncle was throwing to try and impress his boss at work, a strange creature, a house elf named Dobby, appeared in his bedroom and demanded that Harry not go back to Hogwarts. Then, the elf pulled out a tightly wrapped package of letters, all addressed to Harry.

Harry's blood ran cold. "What are those?"

Dobby at least had the decency to look ashamed. "These are Harry Potter's letters, sir. Dobby has been intercepting them in the hopes that if Harry Potter thought his friends were ignoring him, then he would not wish to go back to Hogwarts."

"Give them back to me," Harry said, taking a threatening step near the elf. His friends had been writing him all this time and this little elf thing had been intercepting all of it.

"No!" Dobby shouted, pulling the letters close to his little body, "Not unless Harry Potter swears not to go back to Hogwarts this year! There are bad things, evil things, happening and Dobby will not let Harry Potter be hurt!"

The thought of not going back to Hogwarts briefly passed through his head – after all, he had been there for almost the whole of the year last time and he wound up dead with a legendary rock in his chest. Then he remembered Hermione and Ron quickly and his incredible dislike of the Dursleys. He could not stay here at Privet Drive however, that was certain.

Harry almost lunged at the elf, but then quickly calmed himself. _I'll indulge him, get my letters back, and then go about my own merry way_, Harry thought to himself.

"Alright, I'll not go back to Hogwarts if you give me back all of my mail and stop intercepting it," Harry said, holding his hand out for the letters.

The house elf's eyes lit up with elation, "Thank you Harry Potter sir! You will be safe this year, Dobby is glad!" Just as he handed the letters back to Harry, he could feel a blanket of magic settle over them. Dobby eyes shimmered for a brief instant, but Harry just felt the magic roll off of his shoulders after the stone in his chest heated for a brief moment.

"Leave," Harry said, gripping the letters tight in his hand. A surprised look and a snap of the elf's fingers later let Harry find himself alone.

After that, the summer picked up and turned from miserable to bearable, with the support of his friends. He could now respond to the letters, which had created a timeline where his friends had gone from happy, to confused, to angry, to worried. Coaxing Ron's owl to wait for his response, he began to mollify those fears about his wellbeing. In addition, Harry had made strides in figuring out more about the stone and the pocket watch.

No one else could see the stone; Harry had purposely walked around the house without a shirt once and no one said anything about the deep red mark that he could see, merely yelling at him to put on clothes and get to work. The same was true when he went to the pool once when the Dursleys were gone for a family outing. No one there had given him a second look or commented on the deep red mark.

The pocket watch remained just about as mysterious as when Harry first got it. A bit of math told him that Dudley and Vernon would follow each other to death soon, in about a decade. That morbidly satisfied Harry, but he made sure not to work the math for his friends. He didn't want to know how long they had, especially if that number was set in stone. A watchmaker didn't know what to make of it either, as they couldn't even able to get it open.

The summer eventually drew to a close, and Harry once again found himself sitting with his friends on the Hogwarts Express. The locomotive sped towards the castle, the Scottish countryside flying by them.

"So explain what was keeping you from our letters again Harry? You were kind of vague in the replies," Ron said as he leaned back into his seat some time into their trip back to Hogwarts.

"An elf, little wrinkly thing, had been abducting my mail in the attempt that if I thought you two weren't writing me I wouldn't have wanted to come back to Hogwarts," Harry scoffed. "Wouldn't give them back to me until I said that I wouldn't come back, but here I am."

"Wait, a house elf?" Hermione asked, brows furrowed as she tried to remember a fact about them. "He made you promise not to come back to Hogwarts if he gave you the letters back?"

Harry nodded in confirmation, which only led Hermione to be confused again. "That doesn't make sense then, that would count as a magical agreement, which are binding by house elf magic…"

Harry stilled when his friend said that, remembering the feeling of the sudden magic in the air after he promised Dobby just roll of the back of his shoulders. "Binding, like a contract? What would that feel like?"

"Fred and George tried to get me to do an Unbreakable Vow once," Ron chimed in, "There's no stronger contract than that. As we got closer, I could feel the magic growing and settling around me, sinking in. That's how it would feel."

Harry could only shrug his shoulders, ending the line of conversation and letting a comfortable silence settle in between him and his friends. Looking out the window, Harry could see Hogwarts became larger and larger, the majestic castle still as grand as when he first saw it last year. Hopefully this year nothing strange would happen at the school.

Thinking back on this moment in his later years, Harry knew that thought jinxed his second year.

It was the first transfiguration class of the year, and Harry couldn't have been happier to be back surrounded by magic. He, Ron, and Hermione walked in, taking their seats as McGonagall gave a stern look over the class of Gryffindors and Slytherins. Her gaze sent them all a very clear look – order _will_ be maintained.

Nodding, she acknowledged everyone was present. "Welcome back for another year at Hogwarts. This year we shall be focusing on intermediate transfigurations and delving deeper into the theory behind the art. As a quick review though, what is one of the principle exceptions to Gamp's law?" McGonagall asked, sweeping over the students before catching Hermione's hand. "Ms. Granger?"

"Conjuring food is one of the Principle Exceptions to Gamp's law, professor."

She nodded, satisfied. "Correct, Ms. Granger. It is a brilliant example of why transfiguration is so versatile – anything you can conjure you can transfigure to the extent of your will. Now, we'll begin immediately. There are gerbils in the box behind me, you will pair up and have one between the two of you. One of you will work on transfiguring it into a cup, the other transforming it back. You will then switch roles. Begin."

The three split, Harry and Ron partnering while Hermione went with Neville. Handing Ron the gerbil, the Weasley spoke, "Think Scabbers would make an okay substitute? Gerbil is probably more useful than he is."

"I don't think Scabbers would be okay with being transfigured into a cup. Now come on, I'll start." Harry chuckled, pulling out his wand. Pointing the holly wand at the creature, which made Harry feel slightly guilty with how it was looking at him, he tried to cast the spell.

The effect was instantaneous. The gerbil's body morphed, transforming into a small, silver goblet. A perfect, simple goblet. The two second years stared at Harry's success, before bringing it to their other friend's attention.

"Hey Hermione, look! Harry got it on his first try!"

After giving Neville a warning not to do anything just yet, the bushy haired girl turned around, expecting only to see a furry goblet, not the actual, finished product of the assignment. "What- How did you do that, we only just started!"

Harry was still in a small kind of shock, he honestly hadn't expected anything to happen. As McGonagall came over to him and Ron's table, he snapped out of his state.

"Well done Mr. Potter." said the professor, inspecting the goblet. "I see you have been reviewing the theory and intent over the summer. 10 points to Gryfifndor. Now, transfigure it back Mr. Weasley."

"Right…transfigure it back…" Ron muttered, pulling out his new wand. His family had decided to get him a new one, as they had to go to Ollivander's to get Ginny one as well. Using the money that his father won in a Daily Prophet draw, Ron never had to use Charlie's wand again. He waved his wand, hoping something would happen.

It continued like this, Harry deciding to stay with returning the goblet to a gerbil after Ron finally managed to swap places with him.

Classes were over for the day, and Harry hurried to the library, a question burning in his mind. All day his magic had seemed more powerful, following the intent of his will perfectly. He achieved spells on the first try, no matter the branch of magic. He could feel the magic roiling inside though, and it was Harry's own fear that fueled his will to keep it tamed.

Recalling his talk with Dumbledore in the hospital wing at the end of last year, he asked Madam Pince where a book about Nicolas Flamel or the Sorcerer's Stone would be. The librarian pointed him in the right direction, and Harry poured over the tome.

"_The Philosopher's Stone, otherwise known as the Sorcerer's Stone, is a magical object created by renowned alchemist Nicolas Flamel. There is rather little information about the stone itself or the means of creating one, but there are several known facts concerning the abilities of the stone. Its most well-known use is being able to produce the Elixir of Life, a substance that gives the subject an immortal life. Whether the Elixir must be taken repeatedly is unknown. Another believed property is the stone's ability to act as a catalyst for a person's magic, amplifying it beyond normal bounds. Nicolas Flamel demonstrated this at the Wizarding Dueling Tournament in 1864. There is much debate…"_

Harry closed the book, having found what he needed to know. His hand moved to rest over where his heart was, his mind working at a fast pace. Dumbledore said the stone had disappeared that night, but that it was impossible for it to have fallen in Voldemort's hands.

Harry now knew that to be true. All of his suspicions were confirmed. The mark on his chest was the size of the stone, his magic was receiving a boost of some sort, and he was still breathing after having his heart destroyed. The elixir must have mixed in with him somehow, keeping him going. Nicolas Flamel's philosopher's stone was acting as his heart.

Harry's mind suddenly became very aware of all the implications of having the stone in his chest. His blood not only was demanded by Voldemort's supporters, but now had the elixir of life coursing through it. One of the most desirable things in the entire world.

The fact his heart had been replaced by the legendary stone was also a worry. If it ever became known to anyone, Merlin forbid Voldemort should ever find out, they would come after him with tenacity unknown to man. After all, what is a school boy to a fully trained wizard?

Putting away the tome, Harry walked out of the library with a new resolve shining in his eyes. He would get stronger. Survival demanded it.


	3. A Task

IB. For those of you who understand those two letters, that is why.

Inspiration for the new writing format goes to George R. R. Martin and Shadenight123, whose story _Harry Dursley and the Chronicles of the King_ is a good late night read, and I highly recommend it.

A shout out to all the reviewers of the last chapter, I can only apologize for the long silence.

**NOTICE: THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN EDITED AND UPDATED. 3/18/13**

* * *

><p><em>Harry Potter<em>

Harry awoke with a start, feeling as though he was being watched. The night was in its darkest hour, and no one else in the boy's dorm was awake. Ron was snoring, Neville tossing, Seamus was muttering in his sleep, and Dean was laying still. There seemed to be nothing amiss.

Still unsure, Harry crept out of bed and reached for his wand. Upon understanding just what lay in his chest cavity, Harry had become slightly more paranoid, even though he only had few grounds on which to base his paranoia. Harry put on his glasses, and gazed cautiously around the tower, but felt silly when there was nothing that caught his attention.

"Guess I was imagining things…" Harry muttered, heading back to bed.

"No, Mr. Potter, I do not believe you were. Good instincts on your part, you will need those in the coming future." A voice said, coming from the foot of his bed.

Harry whipped around, only to see the familiar visage of Death calmly looking at him while puffing on a cigar. No one in the dorm seemed to notice the specter's presence, and Harry noted that Ron's snoring had stopped completely. What was going on?

"Do not fret, Mr. Potter, no one shall discover our secret tonight. If you think so paltry a thing as time can impede me, then you are sadly deluded. Stopping it for a breath is but child's play." Death explained, blowing a ring into Harry's face, forcing the boy to cough. "It is only the laws of reality that force me to use mortals to collect on the debts."

"Why are you here?" Harry blurted out, before covering his mouth. "I mean, it's only been a couple of months, you can't want me to kill already?"

"Do not think to presume what I want you to do. I will be brief with you though tonight, Mr. Potter. I have a task for you."

Harry couldn't help but swallow uneasily, worried about what the man would demand of him. No matter that the stone was amplifying his magic; Harry still didn't think he had it in him to kill. Quirrell had been a complete accident and was self-defense.

"What is it?"

"Of the people who hold outstanding debts to me, the man you call Voldemort is one of them. Whilst you were unconscious those many months ago, I collected on one of his debts, which you will no doubt thank me for later. Now, I have the knowledge that another debt of his is within your reach."

Harry, confused by what the figure in front of him was saying, filed away the information before asking, "What is you want me to do?"

"There is a book somewhere in this castle that contains a piece of his soul. You will find it and destroy it. There is too much magic for me to tell you its precise location."

"What if I can't?" Harry asked, noting that he had no leads to go on in this endeavor.

Death narrowed his eyes before making a clutching motion with his hand.

Harry's eyes bulged open, pain blossoming from the center of his chest, his lungs no longer able to breathe. Falling to his knees, Harry clutched the spot where his heart should be, and could feel himself shaking. His eyes drifted to his hand, which previously looked healthy and alive, but was now was a stark pale. Pain burst to the front of his mind, and Harry's vision began to grow dark.

Then, just as quickly as the pain began, it stopped. Harry's lungs grasped desperately for air, and he began coughing at the intake. Blood rushed back through his body, bringing color back to it and taking him away from Death's doorstep once more.

"That, Mr. Potter, is what shall happen if you cannot. I will not accept failure in this regard. You shall succeed, or I will claim your life. It is that simple."

Harry, fully understanding what situation he was in now, could only nod at the specter and asked, "How will I know if I have the right book? How will I destroy it once I have it?"

"I will indulge you slightly in your questions Mr. Potter. The book belonged to a boy by the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle. He disappeared off the face of existence sometime around Voldemort's initial rise. Now, I will leave to your own ingenuity. You are young, thus you have much more imagination than your elders. I have come to tell you what you needed to know, you have your task, and I have souls to collect." Death said, dismissing the boy as he blew yet another smoke ring in his face.

Harry opened his mouth to ask more questions, but Death disappeared just as quickly as he had come. Ron's snoring now broke the silence instead of Death's baritone, affirming that he was gone.

* * *

><p>Five days into the term and leaving the library, Harry knew his year would not be as calm as he was hoping. Despite that Death was telling him to find a book that contained a piece of his parent's murder's soul and somehow destroy it, Harry had nonetheless hoped luck would be with him and he'd stumble across it in the cooking section of the library or something.<p>

Who was Tom Marvolo Riddle? Was it another person that Voldemort had killed year ago, just another victim? Riddle sounded like a muggle name, so he could've been a muggle born, which was reason enough for Voldemort to kill him. Had he been a Hogwarts student as well? That would warrant looking into – as far as Harry knew, all British magical children came to Hogwarts for an education.

Harry sighed in frustration at how little he had to go on. A name and the knowledge that a book was somewhere in an ancient castle with dozens of secrets was barely useable information. It amounted to a veritable search for a needle in a haystack. Was there a record of old students perhaps that he could refer back to, a book of alumni perhaps? Hermione would know, he'd ask her once he got back to the common room.

Harry had just passed Professor Lockhart's classroom when he heard the voice, echoing through the corridor.

"_Kill. Rip. Tear. Come here…come now…let me eat you…"_

"What!?" Harry said, his voice echoing through the hall, loud enough for Lockhart's door to open.

"What is all this noise out – Oh, Harry! Come for my autograph, you seemed so tired today in class," the man said, seemingly not having heard the voice as Harry had.

"Professor, did you hear that?"

The man looked at him queerly, "What are you talking about my boy?" he asked before getting a look of understanding, "Ah, I understand. You're just nervous about being in the presence of a celebrity! Well, don't you worry Harry, it all comes with practice. I know that – "

Harry tuned out the man and continuing to listen for the noise he had heard. It sounded long, drawn out, and vicious. Very, very vicious.

Lockhart continued speaking behind him, even as Harry noticeably relaxed, but still tense from what he had heard. "Yes, Professor, that's fascinating, but I'm very tired, sir, and I have your class first tomorrow."

"Oh, yes of course Harry! Beauty sleep is a very important thing for us celebrities, thank you for reminding me. Now then, off you go – Oh wait!" he said, making Harry stop. "Ms. Brown asked me for an autograph earlier today, and I didn't have a picture on my person at the moment. Could you please take this to her?"

"Er, yes sir…" said Harry, taking the picture and walking away as Lockhart made a shooing motion. Pocketing the picture, he quickly made his way up to Gryffindor Tower, his ears alert all the while for any hint of the murderous voice he had heard.

* * *

><p><em>Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore<em>

Five days into term, and things were seemingly going according to plan. The students had all arrived safely, settled in and sorted, and Albus had managed to find a replacement for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, which no one had held down since he turned Tom down for the job. Argus was already complaining of the Weasley twins, hastily at work on their pranks, Severus was cowing first years to make them try not to blow up his lab, and Filius was bursting with energy with the new school year.

But most importantly, Harry was back at Hogwarts safe and sound. The blood wards around number 4 Privet Drive were recharged, and Harry's safety was ensured for another year. At least, Albus hoped that was the case.

Plucking a lemon drop from the bowl on his desk, his mind strayed back to the end of the pervious school year. Quirinus, a man he had thought he knew, had taken Tom into his body and soul. Because Quirinus was tied to the Hogwarts wards as a professor, and because Albus had removed some of the wards that alerted him to dark magic in order for Severus to stay at Hogwarts, Voldemort had managed to nearly seize the Philosopher's Stone and kill Harry right under his own crooked nose. It didn't matter that he had planned for such a thing – Albus had not been expecting it to actually happen.

_That was far too close_, Albus thought, stroking Fawkes' plumage. _The matter of the stone still remains, however._

Indeed, Albus had no idea where the stone had disappeared to. When he had placed it into the Mirror of Erised, he had known Tom would be unable to reach it. He had planned that obstacle just in case he had somehow made it into the castle, a contingency he was glad he made. Yet when he had checked the mirror, the stone was no longer there. Severus had not seen the stone either and it would have been impossible for Voldemort's spirit to make use of it or even take it. Harry did not have it on his person, and the stone was impossible to vanish, banish, or otherwise alter. Harry also certainly didn't have the skill to hide it in a dimensional pocket, which was how Nicolas usually held it.

Albus had not, however, intended Harry to make his way into the inner sanctum beneath the school. Had the protections been breached, he had intended himself or Severus to confront the perpetrator, not an eleven year old boy, no matter how special.

"I suppose teamwork isn't always the best policy, is it Fawkes?" Albus said the phoenix, who only trilled in response. "Next time I'll do things personally."

Albus was broken from his musings by a tapping on his window by a large, black feathered owl. A familiar large, black feathered, Great Horned Owl no less. Albus couldn't help but swallow nervously a little bit as he opened the window and the bird stuck its leg out at him, a letter tied near its talon.

"Thank you, Archimedes. Will that be all? Would you like a lemon drop?"

The owl regarded him and the offered yellow treat for a moment, before flapping its wings once and taking back off into the night towards France and its master.

Calming himself, Albus sat back down at his desk and Fawkes trilled to calm him. Smiling thankfully at the bird, Albus unfurled the letter and read the immaculate cursive.

_Albus,_

_Do not bother sending a letter back. Perenelle is in good spirits and we are enjoying the remnants of the continental warmth before autumn sets in. My current project is proceeding according to schedule, and I will discuss your request for the resumption of the Triwizard Tournament with Olympe when I am next at Beauxbatons._

_Now, onto actual business. It is the fifth of September, and as such our agreement is done. You will return to me the stone in two days; I will send Archimedes back for it. I already know you did not discover any of its properties. You may have been my student but you cannot touch my skill in alchemy._

_Hope you are well._

_-Nicolas _

Albus set the letter down slowly and reached into a drawer of his desk, pulling out a bottle of firewhiskey, bottled in 1953.

"I need to find that stone."

* * *

><p>AN: Chapter 3. A long awaited update, and likely the most unexpected one.

Senior year is a very exhaustive thing, anyone else in IB? You can relate.


	4. A Power

**Updated: 1/26/14**

* * *

><p><em>Hermione Jean Granger<em>

There was something wrong with Harry Potter.

That much was clear to her, at the very least, as the year progressed through September and towards October. After they had gotten back from the summer holidays, she noticed how he had simply become more distant, more focused on his classes and learning as much information as he could. While this was certainly not a bad change – she'd been trying to get Ron and he to take their studies seriously for months – it was definitely unprompted.

It was a slow change, she noticed. It started small, with reading a book while she and Ron were around and politely declining invitations to play chess or exploding snap. Harry wouldn't talk as much, and would only reply when he was pulled from his reading enough to do so, after which he went right back to reading.

Even Oliver Wood told her that he had noticed that his star seeker was distracted by something important, when she asked. He did follow it up with saying that it didn't keep Harry from being a marvelous seeker on the pitch, though. That was a testament to Harry's ability to compartmentalize, Hermione guessed.

Harry had grown so distant that when Nearly Headless Nick invited him to his deathday party, because Harry and the Gryffindor house ghost got along so well, Harry politely turned him down and recused himself back to the library tonight.

Out of curiosity one day, she leaned over to see what he was reading. While it wasn't terribly advanced, Hermione herself was checking in on sixth year theory for some classes, Harry was looking at practical applications of battle spells from fifth year below, application for runes and their properties, and reading up on the downfalls of major Lords, like Dark Lord Grindelwald, You-Know-Who's rise to power, and how powerful wizards had dealt with one another in history. He read biographies of famous Aurors, of duelists, of witches and wizards who regarded as the prodigies of their generation. Harry also looked in on spell crafting books – spell crafting of all things! – sneaking in reads of it during class. Charms, transfiguration, magical creatures in war…

What stuck out the most though is that Harry was reading anything he could get his hands on that concerned the Philosopher's Stone - rumors, barely credible books, alchemy journals, anything and everything. It had consumed him in a way.

His magic, perhaps as a consequence of all his reading, had skyrocketed though. Hermione always knew Harry was a talented wizard, and more powerful than she was, but never before had he gotten spells faster than her in every class, consistently, outside of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Now he was getting spells on the first try, perfectly executed and praised by the teachers. After being asked to perform it a few more times, each time perfectly, they would excuse Harry from the exercises and he would go about reading.

Admittedly Potions was still in her favor, because Snape couldn't tolerate Harry at all, even as his reading boosted his ability to brew.

It was concerning, to say the least; as though Harry was preparing himself for some major conflict that would consume him in a maelstrom. And it made Hermione feel like she was losing one of her first friends. Something had happened down in that chamber with Quirrel and the stone, she knew it. She just had to find out what.

"Ron," she asked as the Weasley pulled his attention away from a game of chess, "has Harry talked to you about anything being on his mind?"

"What, like something is bothering him?"

"Yes, he's been distant lately and it is worrying me. Has he said anything to you?"

Ron shook his head in the negative, "He's just recovering from his time at the Dursleys. They aren't exactly the kindest relatives to him," he growled. "Harry will come talk to us when he's ready, 'Mione. Plus with Lockhart fawning all over him along with all the teachers, Harry is probably annoyed with all the attention."

"How do they treat them?"

"Well, I don't much about it, you know how tight lipped he gets," Ron said, scratching the back of his head. "I do know that he never got a Christmas present really before, except for socks maybe. They had also kept his Hogwarts letter from him in the beginning."

Could that have something to do with his sudden interest in all those topics? Not wanting to be in a weak position, or knowing how to deal with people in power in case he had to fight?

"Anyways, Harry isn't make a big fuss so I'm not worried. Anything he wants to tell us he'll tell us on his own time." Ron said, moving a knight to take a bishop.

"But – "

"Leave him be, Hermione."

Ron turned his attention back to his one man chess game, leaving her with less answers than she'd been hoping for. While the bit about the Dursleys she hadn't known, it could have explained some of his distant behavior but not the sudden interests in his studies.

Hermione would find out what was bothering her friend somehow. Something had happened in that chamber with Quirrel, and she would not rest until she knew he was okay.

* * *

><p><em>Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore<em>

Nothing; that's what Albus found when he scoured the chamber that housed the Philosopher's Stone. It truly had disappeared, right under his own crooked nose. The most powerful magical artifact in the world, a stone that could not only amplify magic but alter the reality of magic itself, turn basic substances to gold, and act as a transmitter to the other side of the existence had gone missing in a school of children.

When he had received the letter from his mentor, Albus got thoroughly drunk. Nicolas was a firm, demanding man who expected that his apprentice to deliver on what he asked. Nicolas also scared Albus as though he were still a young man mucking around with dragon's blood and not really knowing what to do with it. Nicolas wanted his stone back, but Albus had nothing to give him.

Somehow, by an act of Merlin's ghost seemingly, the ancient Flamel had extended his former student's time with the stone though. Something else had caught Nicolas' attention for the stone's residence with Albus to be inconsequential for a time longer. It was a side effect of possessing that artifact for six centuries – time seemed to not matter anymore to Nicolas, giving the man infinite patience for his goals and plans to come to fruition.

In that time since, Albus had ordered Hogwarts to search all her alcoves, her nooks and crannies; the elves to scour through the student's belongings, the teacher's quarters, even the dragon den beneath the school (the dragon in which had long since died). They were to turn up every floorboard, violate every inch of privacy the teachers and students thought they had, and to leave no stone unturned. The Philosopher's Stone could not fall into the hands of someone who did not understand it or would use it selfishly.

Nothing, again, turned up.

Overlooking the student body of Hogwarts, the elderly Headmaster thought back to the other problems that were plaguing the school and his mind.

Indeed, the stone was not the only thing that was troubling his mind. Gilderoy was proving to be much more incompetent than Albus first suspected. The boy was untalented at Hogwarts, but he thought the man had at least learned something during his adult life. He was quickly being disappointed. The fact that the books, while admittedly being well written, were full of lies was becoming more and more apparent. Yet there was nothing Albus could do about it now; the Board of Governors prevented dismissal of a professor without significant evidence of gross incompetency. It just happened to be though that the Board and the Headmaster had differing opinions on the meaning of 'gross incompetency'.

And it was Halloween, for which tradition demanded something weird or otherwise horrible to likely happen. Last year it was the troll. Four years ago, all of the Jack O' Lanterns proceeded to fly around, as though they were possessed, the Great Hall during dinner. Eleven years ago it was Tom's, seemingly permanent, death. Albus only hoped that whatever it was this year would be much calmer.

After dinner was eaten and the students happily stuffed from the Halloween feast, Albus rose out of his chair and brought their attention to him, "Now that we're all fattened up and comfortable, I think that it is time we retire to our common rooms. Happy Halloween, everyone!" Pulling out the Elder wand, Albus gave it a wave and the lanterns that were suspended in the air of the Great Hall gave a loud cackle. "Off you trot!"

Albus noticed during dinner that Harry was not at the Gryffindor table, and neither was Gilderoy at the teacher's table. Sighing lightly, Albus imagined that the celebrity was attempting to coerce Harry to back his next book. Another problem – his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was harassing his most public student.

At least the evening was drawing to a close and nothing had disturbed this quiet Halloween.

Albus' thoughts were interrupted when Minerva came sweeping up behind him, a panicked look on her face, "Albus, something has happened to Mrs. Norris, and I'm afraid Mr. Potter may be involved."

Well, there went his hope for a quiet Halloween.

* * *

><p><em>Harry James Potter<em>

Whether it was because it was Halloween, a Thursday, or the combination of both, Harry's day had just gone from mildly pleasant to annoying.

While the Halloween feast was going on, Harry had secluded himself in the Hogwarts library; a location that was becoming quickly familiar to him. He had pulled a number of books to skim through and check out, as he had been doing for the weeks that school had been in session. Once he found a good three books to keep him for a while, Harry packed up his notes on his readings and checked out the books only to be accosted by Lockhart outside of the library.

"Harry, my boy!" Lockhart said as soon as the second year came out of the library.

"Er, good evening Professor," Harry replied. He didn't want to put up with the incompetent man in front of him; Harry learned more from unintentional research than he had from both of his Defense Against the Dark Arts professors.

"Listen, I was wondering if I could talk to you about a business proposal of mine…"

Harry inwardly blanched; he didn't like where this was going. "A business proposal, sir?"

The professor beamed, "Why yes! You see, I have this new book coming out next spring, and I was wondering if you'd help me along with a press release," a faraway look appeared in his eye, "Can you imagine the sales it would make? My dashing self and the Boy-Who-Lived's public backing? It would be at the top of the bestseller's list for weeks!"

Harry backed away slowly from the man, who was becoming increasingly more distracted. "I'm sorry sir, but I've been studying most of the night and need to get to dinner soon before it is over. Perhaps we could talk about this another time?" Without even waiting for the man to respond, Harry took off at a brisk walk. Harry forgot that it was Halloween though, and that nothing ever really went right for him on Halloween.

The halls were empty, with dinner in the Great Hall still going. It was in this silence, broken only with Harry's footsteps, that he heard the bone chilling voice from nearly a month before.

"…_so hungry…for so long…_"

The voice was barely above a whisper, and Harry wondered if it was Death playing a trick on him or the very thing Death had wanted him to destroy. Harry mentally slapped himself at that; Death had said it was a book that he needed to destroy.

"_Kill…time to kill…" _The voice moved quickly, travelling through the walls of the castle. Harry knew it was something dangerous though.

The voice was climbing, Harry realized, higher into the castle. Death had talked about destroying a piece of Voldemort's soul; the voice that he was hearing could certainly fit the idea of Voldemort that Harry had in his head. The madness, the calling to kill…Could the book be making these homicidal statements?

"…_blood…I SMELL BLOOD!_"

Harry broke out into a run at that, flying up the stairs and through hallways as he chased the murderous voice. It was going to kill something, to spill more of whatever blood it smelled.

Putting up with Lockhart's pompous self, who had been trying to corner him and convince him to back his new book and do a joint interview throughout the school year, wasn't enough for this year's Halloween. Mrs. Norris had to go and get petrified, with Harry being the one to discover her as he turned the hallway pursuing whatever voice he heard.

He could tell it was petrification from the way Mrs. Norris' fur was arrayed. If she were dead, gravity would have made the fur all bend downward. Instead, it was frozen, pointing in the many directions as it usually was. An ancient Egyptian wizard named Imhotep that Harry had stumbled upon in his reading rather liked making living statues of his enemies and was well known for petrifying them by making them look at his pet basilisk through a mirror.

Harry knew it was a rather unfounded annoyance he had with the cat, but it was the spirit of the matter. Whatever had petrified the blasted thing had inadvertently caused Harry a lot of trouble. Being discovered there first by a bunch of students in front of the message never boded well for him; and being Harry Potter meant his luck was tantamount to that of a troll's.

"'Enemies of the heir beware'?" Draco Malfoy's sneering voice said, breaking the silence of the gathered students staring at the blood written message on the wall beside Mrs. Norris' stiff body. "Just watch, mudbloods! You'll be next!"

"Oh, just be quiet Malfoy," Harry snapped. He could already feel the whispers starting about the whole matter; ideas of who the heir was and what the message was even referring to. "The cat is just petrified, nothing worse." Harry wondered if he could wake it up with an _ennervate_ spell, since the stone was powering him so much. The voice was gone now for certain, and Harry morbidly wondered if the message was the blood it had smelled.

"Mrs. Norris!" Filch's voice cried out, distress tinged. His eyes widened with horror as he saw his precious cat hanging upside down by her tail. His eyes found Harry, who the crowd had surrounded and stood separately from, and Harry could see the accusation form. "_You_! You killed my precious Mrs. Norris!"

Annoyed, and now suffering a mild headache, Harry snapped back "She's fine, just petrified! Look at her fur; she'll be fine!" Pulling out his wand, Harry decided to see if his theory about waking Mrs. Norris would be proven correct. "_Ennervate!"_

The magic washed over Mrs. Norris, much stronger than such a simple spell had a right to be. In fact, the sheer power of the spell had altered even its intended purpose away from waking the subject from unconsciousness to bringing them back to full consciousness no matter their state.

Not that Harry knew this, though.

With a yelp, the no longer petrified cat fell from where she was hanging and landed on the ground. She looked around, confused for a moment, before seeing her beloved Argus and running up to him to be picked up. The caretaker leaned down and did just that, cooing at his companion with tears running down his face.

Harry thought that it was a touching sight, despite how disturbing a sight it was to see.

"Everyone stand back! Mr. Potter, will you please – oh my word!"

McGonagall had finally arrived, with the headmaster in tow, only to see the blood writing on the wall, all of the students freshly out of the Hogwarts feast, Harry with his wand out, and a weeping caretaker and his mildly distressed cat; the last of which she knew to have been petrified not five minutes ago when she went to fetch the headmaster.

"Evening Professors," Harry said, his polite tone belying the seriousness of the situation. "I woke Mrs. Norris up."

Dumbledore, who had been watching silently behind her, chuckled slightly and broke the tension that had been in the air. "Well done, Mr. Potter. Ten points to Gryffindor for marvelous spell work. Now then, I think it is time that we all toddle off to bed now; it's almost past curfew!" His twinkling eyes caught Harry's, and Harry couldn't help but feel like something just bounced lightly off of his head. "That includes yourself; Mr. Potter."

Nodding, Harry followed the mass exodus of students from the hallway containing the message. They were all gossiping, not only about the message on the wall, but about how he woke up Mrs. Norris with such a spell that was not learned until fourth year. That alone was enough to cause the curiosity of the elder years to spike.

The voice's murderous intonations still echoed inside of Harry's head, leaving him to ponder over Death's task for him again. A book that contained a piece of Voldemort's very own soul, and now a voice that permeated through Hogwarts proper and left a bloody message in its wake.

"Harry! Harry!" Hermione's voice followed me through the halls and rose above the other students. Ron was walking briskly behind her; both of them had concerned expressions on their face as they tried to keep up with him.

Harry kept his head down and moved quickly through the students, blending in with them. He didn't want to deal with questions right now and just wanted to get to reading about a new magic he found in the library. Legilimancy sounded downright useful, if slightly invasive.

* * *

><p><em>Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore<em>

After getting the students sent back to their common rooms, Albus and the professors remained in the hallway with the bloody message still decorating the stone walls. "Severus, if you would?" Albus asked, gesturing to the blood.

Severus waved his wand over the blood and muttered a detection spell, "Chicken blood, Headmaster."

"Ah, I imagine Hagrid is wondering where one of his flock has gotten to. Very well, let's get this cleaned up." Albus said, waving his wand over the blood to make it disappear. The other professors, sensing that they were no longer needed, dispersed to their respective offices.

Severus, Minerva, and Albus stood alone in the hallway now. The transfiguration professor spoke up first, "Albus, Mr. Potter's spell…"

"Strangely worked to reverse a magical effect that it shouldn't have; we all saw it Minerva," Severus cut it. "What we need to ask is how Potter did it; his magical power shouldn't be at that level at his age, to not even mention the impossibility of reversing petrification with an ennervate."

Albus calmed his professors, and then gestured for them to keep pace with him as he walked back to his office, "I saw what happened, do not worry. My eyes haven't started to fail me quite yet. Minerva, has Harry been showing such magical progress in your class?"

She nodded, "He's gotten every transfiguration down perfectly on the first try, to the point that it is not only impossible to differentiate between the original and the model, but some students cannot even undo the transfiguration. When his wandwork is sloppy though, the effect is not as prevalent."

Severus nodded is affirmation at this, "Filius has preened to me about Potter's sudden ability to master charms on his first try, as well. He has brought his charm work close to that of almost permanent enchanting, according to Filius."

This made Albus pause in his thoughts and plant a seed of fear in his mind. Could Harry have kept the stone from him, somehow? What the professors were describing to him sounded awfully like what Albus himself had first experienced under Nicolas' tutelage all those years ago, when he once held the Philosopher's Stone as an apprentice.

The stone was an amplifier; to the extent that it opened avenues of magic that were closed to normal, average witches and wizards. Truth and reality became a plaything to whoever commanded the stone, as Albus had learned when he created permanent transfigurations. Such a thing was impossible, as the magic that kept the object transformed would eventually fade. The stone, however, truly _transformed_ the object into what its master willed. Not only that, but it opened access to transmutation, a complex form of wandless magic that only a dozen or so witches and wizards in the world could perform. One either had to be extremely well versed in alchemy and have significant power…or possess a magical artifact that could allow a person to.

An artifact it was beginning to seem that Harry was using in his classes.

The thought made the old Headmaster's thoughts thunder with anger at the young charge; anger that the boy had hid this from him, anger that he was using the stone in such an irresponsible and selfish manner!

Albus blinked at his thoughts, and pushed them behind his occlumency shields. It could be that Harry was just experiencing a magical growth spurt of significant power. The prophecy implied that Harry would be incredibly powerful, after all.

But power didn't account for the boy's impenetrable occlumency shields that kept him from skimming the boy's thoughts. Even briefly using his legilimancy, Albus could tell that the shields were solid beyond measure. It would take a significant amount of force to break into the boy's mind, force that Albus may not be able to command.

That was another mark against Harry in this case. A person didn't just sprout occlumency shields that powerful over a summer naturally – not even werewolves had such solid shields.

Albus would have to make the elves be particularly thorough in checking Harry's possessions, to even go so far as subtly checking what the boy carried on his person at all times.

"…blatantly reads in class, too," Severus's voice broke through Albus' thought process.

"Hm? I'm sorry Severus, I seem to have gotten lost in thought."

Severus' eyebrow twitched slightly when he realized that Albus hadn't been listening to what he had been saying. "I said, Headmaster, that the boy is also blatantly reading strange topics in class. Biographies of powerful wizards, as well as strategy volumes and works on the Philosopher's Stone."

That last part caught Albus' attention, and he felt his stomach drop. He desperately hoped that Harry was not involved with the stone somehow. Nicolas could be very harsh in his reprimands.

"Well," Albus said, his throat gone a bit dry, "We'll just have to keep an eye on young Harry to determine what this is all about then, won't we?"


End file.
